


Exactly One Cup of Water

by Rover09



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Companionable Snark, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Like Super Minor Angst, M/M, Minor Angst, pierogi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 08:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rover09/pseuds/Rover09
Summary: “Pierogi, Peril. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”





	Exactly One Cup of Water

**Author's Note:**

> I lifted the title from the pierogi recipe my family uses, word for word. This is also super duper extra un-beated. First time writing in this fandom, so I hope the characters sound ok. *fingers crossed*  
> Translations are at the bottom.

The click of the penthouse door closing was what made Napoleon peek around the corner.

“Peril, what a surprise! What brings you to my abode?” Napoleon stepped around and came to face Illya, eyes twinkling.

Illya’s eyes swept over Napoleon’s frame, taking note of his dough sticky fingers and the light dusting of flour in his hair, the dark curls left untamed for once. “Gaby said you wanted to see me.”

Napoleon just smiled and turned back to the kitchen, “coming Peril?” tossed over shoulder.

Illya just frowned. “That does not answer my question Cowboy.”

Napoleon’s sigh could be heard from the entryway. “Just come over here and give me a hand Peril. I got an extra apron for you and everything.”

The Russian heaved a sigh of his own, shucking off his customary jacket, hanging it on the coatrack. The American had been in a  _mood_  for the past week, and Illya was sure it wasn’t entirely due the upcoming holiday. Gaby had asked while they had been packing up for their week off, but Napoleon had conveniently side-stepped the question every time. Here at least, he may get some answers.

Illya stepped into the kitchen, the afternoon sun shining on dark grey counters and cream cabinetry. Napoleon was standing over a bowl on island, surface dusted with flour, along with everything else.

“Loose the holster Peril, flour is a bitch to clean out.”

“I don’t think so Solo.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes, reaching over to grab an apron and toss it over to the Russian.

“Custom design. Now get over here, I could use a hand.”

Illya held the fabric up, noting the snaps and odd pocket on the inside of the apron. He couldn’t help the small smile that crossed his face. “Holster in your aprons, Cowboy?”

“You never know when angry Russians may come barging in, guns blazing Peril,” his voice distant as he precisely measured out a cup of water.

“I think the ‘guns blazing’ is more of an American thing, Cowboy.” Illya stepped out of the kitchen, shrugging off his shoulder holster and sliding his gun into the inner pocket of the apron before putting it on. Only Napoleon Solo would custom tailor his aprons to have a holster.

“What’s taking so long Peril? I need a strong back and a weak mind,” Napoleon chirped from the kitchen.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Solo, remind me again who won our last chess match?” Illya walked back into the kitchen in time to see Napoleon pout.

“I still stand by my statement that you cheated.”

“Said like a man lacking skill.”

Napoleon dramatically threw his hands up into the air before turning back to the bowl on the island counter. “I did not invite you here to be insulted in my own home.”

“You should have thought of that sooner.”

“Yes yes, well get over here and start folding.” And with that Napoleon reached into the bowl and dropped a solid mass of dough onto the floured counter with a ‘plop’.

Illya walked up to the other side of the island, reaching for the container of flour sitting next to the bowl and lightly dusting his hands. “What are we making Cowboy?”

Napoleon was in the freezer, pulling out a carton of blueberries. “Pierogi, Peril. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”

“And why do we need frozen blueberries?”

“For filling them of course,” Napoleon said, reaching up into a cabinet to grab a large bowl.

“Blueberries do not belong in pierogi.”

“Well Peril,” Napoleon said, pointedly dumping the blueberries into the bowl he had retrieved, “they do now. Now get cracking, or we’ll be here all night.”

Huffing out a laugh, Illya started gently folding the ball of pierogi dough in front of him. Napoleon rifled through the cabinets above the counter, the sound of jars clinging together a gentle counterpart to the companionable silence.

“Mама taught me how to make вареники after they took my отец to the Gulag. She was afraid they would take her too, wanted me to know before she left.” It takes Illya a moment to realize that he’s speaking.

Napoleon only humed, dumping cinnamon into the bowl of blueberries before reaching into the sugar jar and tossing a few pinches in as well. “What kind were your favorite?”

Napoleon’s question is soft, an air of genuine curiosity about him.

Illya stops working the dough and thinks. The memories are bittersweet these days, now that he knows what had been taking place. But he still treasures the moments, his mother’s soft laughter as he got flour all over _everything_ , the first time she let him make the dough himself. When he could finally see over the counter.

“Illya?”

Napoleon’s soft voice brings him blinking out of his memories. Illya looks up from the ball of dough into soft blue eyes.

“I am fine Cowboy, just old memories.”

“Good ones I hope?”

Illya can’t help but softly smile. “да.”

“So, favorite type of pierogi Peril?” The American had wandered back to the island, sprinkling flour into the bowl of blueberries. The afternoon sun coming in through the windows caught in his hair, highlighting his untamed riot of curls.

Illya couldn’t help but find him stunning.

“Potato and mushroom,” he blurted out, trying to hide his lapse in attention. The American really was too pretty for his own good.

Napoleon hummed thoughtfully, reaching into the cabinets under the island to pull out cookie sheets and a roll of parchment paper. He spread the sheets out on the long counter behind him, tearing off squares of parchment paper and placing them over the trays.

“I,” Napoleon stated, “am a heathen animal who only likes fruit pierogi. So here we are.” He gestures to the island and the bowl of blueberries resting next to the ball of dough.

Illya snorted derisively, “I am not surprised.”

Napoleon shot him a blinding grin before reaching down and coming back up with a rolling pin. “You done?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. You can be on pierogi filling duty.”  Napoleon grabbed a butter knife off the counter, slicing the dough into three neat segments, tossing two back into the bowl. He dusted the rolling pin with flour and proceeded to roll the dough out into a smooth sheet.

Illya rested against the island, watching Napoleon as he worked. “I am more than capable of rolling out dough.”

“Oh of that I have no doubt, but these are a bit different than your standard pierogi.”

“Enlighten me.”

The corner of Napoleon’s mouth curved up in quiet smile. He didn’t look up at Illya, just kept smoothly rolling out the dough.

“For blueberry pierogi, the dough needs to be thicker to hold the berries inside. Making the dough as thin as you would use for cheese or meat pierogi would have the berries falling out when you started boiling them.”

“And the trays?”

“If you freeze them rather than boil or fry them after we make them, they’ll last longer. You can just cook them as needed.”

Illya raised his eyebrows. “Clever Cowboy.”

Napoleon just ducked his head, trying to hide the blush he could feel creeping up his cheeks. “Wasn’t my idea really.”

“Oh?”

Napoleon placed the rolling pin aside, the tips of his fingers pressing down against the dough, testing its thickness. He turned to the cabinet next to the sink and pulled out a pint glass.

“Drinking already, Cowboy?”

Napoleon snorted. “No, I’ve found that pint glasses work best to make proper sized pierogi. And yes, _that_ one was my idea.”

Illya grinned and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Never said otherwise.”

The other man just glowered, “you didn’t have to.”

The Russian crossed his arms, leaning further into the island’s countertop. “Well then, get cracking, or we’ll be here all night.”

Napoleon did not look impressed.

Illya grinned at him, smug.

Rolling his eyes, Napoleon came back to the island and started punching rounds out of the dough, handing the circles to Illya to fill.

“Place them on the tray when you finish them so they can go in to the freezer.”

Illya nodded, stretching out the first of the dough circles before spooning the blueberries into the middle. He folded in in half and pinched it closed before placing the finished pierogi on the closest tray.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I wasn’t aware you _asked_ me a question Peril.”

Illya glanced up from the pierogi he was crimping closed to glower at the American. Said American just heaved an exaggerated sigh at his partner’s glower, pulling up the scraps of the leftover dough to roll out again.

“Fine.”

Silence reigned in the kitchen as Illya placed another finished pierogi onto the tray and started filling another.

“The Depression hit my family hard and by the time I was born we had moved into tenement housing.” Napoleon’s smooth even strokes with the rolling pin didn’t stop, not looking up at Illya. “My mother had me, then ate a bullet two weeks later. So it was just my father and me at that point.”

Illya listened, quietly assimilating this new information into what he already knew about his partner.

“Father had been in the First World War, an Army Sergeant. Giving up wasn’t something he believed in. But he couldn’t work and look after me at the same time.”

Napoleon picked up the pint glass and started cutting out circles again, handing them over to Illya, never once glancing over in his direction.

“There was a sweet old Polish lady living next door with her three grandchildren. She would look after me when father was out. She basically raised me. My first word was ‘babcia’.” Napoleon had a soft smile on his face, Babcia had been, in some ways, all he had as a parental figure growing up.

“You loved her.”

Napoleon looked up at Illya with soft eyes. “More than anything. She was the person who taught me how to cook, how to find joy in making joy for others. My father worked a lot of Christmases, it was good money. So she would have me over and we would make pierogi for Wigilia. I never liked the cheese ones, so she would always make me fruit ones when she could. Her eldest granddaughter was the one who suggested freezing them, so we could make them last when things were tight.”

Napoleon had grabbed another third of the dough out of the bowl and had started rolling it out.

“What happened to them?”

Napoleon gave a careless shrug, once again not looking at Illya. The tension in his frame betraying him.

“I got drafted and left in ’45. Got a letter while I was over there from her grandson. She passed a few months after I left. Don’t know what happened to her grandkids. I didn’t want to ask, didn’t need to give Sanders more leverage.”

Illya scowled. “Would he have-“

“If it meant he could keep my balls on that long leash you mentioned, he would have done it in a heartbeat.”

Illya was quiet for a moment before asking, “and your father?”

Napoleon shrugged. “He just never came home one day. Who knows.”

They fell back into silence, quietly making pierogi.

“Sometimes,” Napoleon started, his voice cracking with emotion. “I think about what she would say if she had ever known about the things I’ve stolen; the people I’ve killed.”

Illya quietly put the circle of dough he had been stretching down and came around the counter to stand next to Napoleon.

“I think,” he said softly, “that she would be proud to see the man that you are now. That you can still find joy in making joy for others after everything that has happened. You may be a terrible spy Cowboy, but you were hers, that’s all that matters.”

Napoleon gently set the pint glass down on the counter, closing his eyes and leaning into Illya. “I just wish I could have said goodbye.”

Unable to resist, Illya leaned down and gently kissed the top of Napoleon’s head. “I do not doubt that she knew you loved her,” he quietly whispered. “You have always been a good man Napoleon Solo.”

Napoleon buried his face in Illya’s shoulder and let his silent tears fall.

* * *

 

Hours later, they had finally finished making all the pierogi. The setting sun sending golden rays of light into the penthouse. Napoleon was bent over the sink, washing the dishes while Illya sat on a barstool, shoulder holster back in place, scotch in hand.

“Thank you for coming Peril.”

Illya quirked his lips in a subtle smile. “You are welcome Cowboy.”

Clinking dishes and the sound of running water filled the silence. Illya watched Napoleon, noting the tension in the shoulders, the way he almost kept turning around to look at him. “Ask your question Cowboy.”

Napoleon tensed, deliberately not glancing over at Illya. “I have no idea as to what you are talking about Peril.”

“Oh I think you do,” Illya’s voice came from right next to Napoleon’s shoulder, making the man jump and spin in place. He hadn’t even heard the other man move.

“Nope, still don’t have a clue as what you’re on about.” A foxlike grin stretched across Napoleon’s face, but there was a nervous shadow in his blue eyes.

Illya firmly placed his hands on the man’s hips, gently pressing him back into the sink. “Use your words Cowboy. Rumor has it you’re good with them.”

Soapy hands gripped Illya’s wool clad arms, trying to find balance. “Well…” Napoleon nervously licked his lips. “Since you did come over and help, I guess I would be remiss if I didn’t invite you to stay for dinner at least.”

Illya grinned. “Why Cowboy, it would be my pleasure,” he murmured before leaning down and claiming Napoleon’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> *Translations*  
> Mама - Mother, Mom  
> вареники - pierogi (technically it's vareniki, which are Ukrainian, but roll with it)  
> отец - father  
> да - yes  
> babcia - grandmother (Polish) (Babcha)  
> Wigilia - Christmas Eve Dinner (Polish) (Vigilia)
> 
> My mom immigrated from Poland when she was 7, so every year we spend the day before Christmas Eve (AKA Today) making pierogi. So I spent 3 hours making pierogi and then another 3 hours writing napollya fanfiction about making pierogi. The recipe Napoleon uses is the one that my grandmother passed down to my mother. 
> 
> I too, like Napoleon, am a heathen animal who hates farmers cheese pierogi.
> 
> Google Translate is my copilot, so let me know if I got something horrendously wrong.


End file.
